Gun (A Spur Western Book 8)

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘You promised me money,’ he said.

  The smile didn’t leave Maddox’s face.

  ‘I promised you money if you kept your mouth shut, Mex,’ he said. ‘But you won’t keep your mouth shut. You’ll tell the marshal how nasty bad men kept you a prisoner here with your family at the point of a gun.’

  ‘I swear—’

  The man got himself between Maddox and the door. Maddox seized him by the front of his shirt and hurled him across the room. His wife stood up, her eyes wide with anger and cursed Maddox in Spanish. He ignored her and went outside. He saw that dawn was not far off. Pity the Indian had taken off. It looked like they would leave a trail that could be followed. Not to fret. They’d make out. He felt cheerful. He was taking a risk and he liked to take a risk. Sure, some of his men were dead. No loss. He would pull out of this game soon and there would be more gold between less people. He liked the idea of being a wealthy Mexican landowner. The girl would change her mind when she realized which side her bread was buttered. If she didn’t—no matter. There were more beautiful women in the world. Just the same, he knew that he would kill her with regret. She had somehow gotten to him as no other woman had for years. Not since that little dark-eyed girl in West Virginia had looked at him in a certain way. Fate in the form of an irate father had kept them apart. That was long ago.

  Holy Madder came out of the house with his gun in Charlie Doolittle’s back. When Doolittle had gone past him, Maddox made a sign to Madder. The little man ran forward on the tips of his toes and struck Doolittle a terrible blow on the back of the head. The lank man fell without a cry. He lay inert on his face when the girl was led out by Wayne Gaylor.

  ‘What’ve you done?’ she cried, running toward him. Maddox caught her by the arm as she passed.

  ‘Get her on a horse,’ he said.

  Gaylor took her by the hair and led her to a horse. She tried to fight him, but he batted her with the back of his hand until she stopped. It did him good to hit something. His shoulder hurt like hell and he felt he owed it. He’d pay the debt in full when Maddox ordered that sonovabitch Doolittle dead. He’d leave him lying on the trail with a bullet in his guts, alive.

  Maddox and Madder lifted Doolittle and slung him roughly over a horse. He hung there limply. The girl mounted and watched them in silence, hate on her face. Madder found a rawhide thong, roped Doolittle’s ankles and tied them to his wrists under the belly of the horse.

  ‘Is he dead?’ the girl asked.

  Maddox turned to Madder: ‘Is he? God knows you hit him hard enough.’

  Madder walked around the horse, caught Doolittle by the hair and lifted his head.

  Doolittle spat in his face.

  The little man recoiled, carefully wiped his face, then hit the helpless man with the same hand.

  ‘Don’t this bastard know when he’s beat?’ he complained.

  ‘Language in front of a lady,’ Maddox said, walked to a horse and mounted.

  Madder chose a lively bay and swung into the saddle. Gaylor mounted a sorrel and they were ready.

  ‘Straight south,’ Maddox said. ‘Let’s go, boys, we’ll sleep in Mexico.’

  Peralta came to the door of the house and shook his fist. He cursed them and Madder turned his horse back. The Mexican jumped back inside the house and slammed the door.

  Maddox and his party rode south.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Cusie Ben found the sign he wanted, he enjoyed the deep satisfaction of an artist who has put a masterstroke on canvas. He had exonerated himself. He awoke after a refreshing sleep, feeling that a good and satisfying day’s work lay ahead of him. After he had saddled his horse, however, and cast around for fresh sign, he knew that he was in trouble, for the riders had obviously taken to the water. He had no idea whether they had gone up or down stream and he knew that he had to make a choice, he had to somehow put himself in the boots of the men he was searching for, to try and see the problem through their eyes. Being able to read the minds as well as the sign of followed men was, after all, the secret of the art of the master-tracker.

  At first, he had come to the conclusion that, for some reasons best known to themselves, the pursued may have chosen to go back to town. That was not a bad ploy, for few would have guessed that they would have taken so dangerous a course. But, he asked himself, what better place for them to hide themselves and the girl than where they would least be expected of being?

  Yet, it would be even safer, surely, for them to make the short ride south to the Border and cross the international line into the comparative safety of Mexico.

  But were they in danger at all? he asked himself. They had the girl and what man could get near them while they held her? She was their trump card.

  He had to produce a hunch and he had to follow it. If they were indeed headed south, he had to move fast or they would be out of his reach. He therefore made the decision to go in that direction and accordingly rode south along the seldom-used trail along the edge of the creek. He didn’t find any fresh sign on the trail that indicated that a number of men had ridden that way, but he didn’t expect to. After several miles, however, he angled right and cut across country in an attempt to cut sign. If that failed, he would cross the creek and try to the east. He would, he thought, ride about five miles either way.

  He had covered no more than a couple of miles, however, when he came upon sign. Not only that made by several horses, but some fresh droppings which gave him the age of the sign.

  And this astonished him, for it was scarcely an hour or so old. At first, he could not believe that this was what he was looking for. For one thing, if the men he was following had gone south, they would have done so a good many hours before. He sat his mule and scratched his head. He stepped down and examined the tracks with enormous care. The droppings were moist and fresh and had come from corn-fed animals. That tied in with what he had found earlier. He surmised that he was looking at the sign of five horses and two of them had been led. That could, he had to admit, belong to the girl and perhaps a packhorse, the load on which approximated to the weight of a man.

  He was puzzled and he didn’t mind admitting it. If this was the sign of the men he wanted, they had changed horses. They had, he reckoned, come from town. That meant that they had laid up somewhere in town or nearby for several hours and then headed for the Border.

  He decided that even if he stood to be wrong he had to assure himself of their identity. That meant ride after them in a hurry. Precautions were not in the book. Speed was of the essence.

  Once his mind was made up, he mounted quickly and urged his mule into a run.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky, he was traveling hard through stony desert that was scattered with brush and cactus. At times, visibility was considerable, at others, when the land dipped, which it did frequently, he could see no more than a quarter-mile. He knew that there was a chance that he had been spotted and the men had taken cover. He lost the sign several times on the stony ground, but each time he picked it up again, for the riders ahead were now travelling without caution with nothing but their destination in mind.

  After a couple of hours, he came out into sandy country and now the sign was so clear that he could follow it with ease at a hard gallop.

  Not long after, he saw the man.

  Cusie Ben halted and watched him from a distance of about a half-mile. The fellow was on foot and he was trudging in Ben’s direction, head down and shoulders slumped. He looked tired and he looked disconsolate. The portrait of a horseman without a horse. Ben checked the country with his eyes. It was flat for another mile or more. Caught in the rising heat-haze to the south was an untidy pile of sandstone. The scene looked innocent enough and safe enough. Ben rode forward toward the man.

  When the fellow sighted him, he stopped and waited for Ben to come up.

  The Negro saw that he was a small leathery man of around forty years old. His legs were bowed and he looked as if walking was not his favorite occu
pation. Pale eyes looked out of the brown face. Ben noted the absence of a rifle and the empty gun-holster at his hip. Plainly, the stranger had not lost his horse from natural causes.

  As Ben drew rein, the man said in a husky dry voice: ‘Friend, I’m sure glad to see you.’

  ‘What happened?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Buncha fellers bushwhacked me in them rocks yonder,’ the man explained. ‘One of their hosses cast a shoe, so they thought they’d take mine. Jest plain hoss-thieves. Me, I can’t abide a hoss-thief. No, sir. Nothin’ lower on this earth ‘an a hoss-thief.’

  ‘That sure is so,’ said Ben. He eyed the distant rocks, wondering if the men were still there, half-believing and half-disbelieving this man’s story.

  ‘They sure was Injuns, them fellers,’ the little man went on. ‘You know what? They done taken my guns an’ set me to walkin’ back to town. No water. Nary a goddam thing. Could I beg a drink of water, friend?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ben. He reached for his canteen. When he lifted his eyes, he found himself looking into the dark eye of a gun.

  Ben stayed still, disgusted with himself. He had been half-suspicious and still he had been suckered. There was no fool, he decided, like an old fool.

  Holy Madder said: ‘Climb down, friend.’

  Ben wondered whether he could draw in the eye of the gun. He looked the little man over carefully and decided that he could not. This man was alert and somehow looked capable. Ben started to step down from the horse. As his right foot touched the ground, it was kicked from under him. As he went down, the little man deftly lifted his gun from leather. The skill of this movement infuriated Ben. He climbed to his feet feeling a complete fool. He watched the little man mount the horse.

  Holy Madder said: ‘Head for them rocks, boy.’

  Ben started walking. He cooled down his rage and started thinking. Only good thinking, he felt, was going to get him out of this one. The only comforting thought that came to him was that pretty soon he would be absolutely sure whether he had followed the right men or not.

  By the time he reached the rocks, he was sweating profusely and his feet were killing him.

  Among the rocks, the first man he came face to face with was Wayne Gaylor.

  This knocked him all of a heap because he thought that the ex-sheriff was safely in jail back in town. Ben could not prevent himself from showing surprise.

  ‘You!’ he exclaimed.

  Gaylor gave him a tight-faced grin. Ben told himself that he was going to be a pretty sick nigger before he was through here. And he had a feeling that he was going to be really through here. He had been instrumental in Gaylor being jailed. If it hadn’t been for him, the ex-lawman’s successful crime ring that dominated the southern part of the Territory would never have been broken up.

  Even so, though a flutter of apprehension went through him, he didn’t miss the fact that Gaylor looked as if he wasn’t enjoying life too well. He noted the bloodstained shirt and the sick look about the man’s eyes.

  He heard a sound to his right and he turned.

  He saw Maddox and he saw the girl.

  He knew Maddox and he knew the girl. He had known Maddox in El Paso years back. The girl he had ridden for on the Cimarron Strip. He dragged his hat from his head.

  ‘Miz Netta,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Ben,’ she said. Her eyes were bright. He was a friend and she badly needed a friend. He saw that her wrists were tied together with rawhide.

  ‘This how you treat a lady, Maddox?’ he demanded.

  Maddox said: ‘Cusie, you don’t talk. I talk.’

  Ben stood, hip-shod, easy and watchful.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go ahead, talk.’

  He was looking beyond the girl. He could see the man lying across the horse, bound. He wondered if he was dead.

  Maddox was saying: ‘You know you’ve gotten yourself in real trouble, Ben?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Ben said. ‘Why the man on that hoss yonder?’

  ‘I said I talk, Ben,’ Maddox told him. ‘You just answer the questions.’

  ‘It’s Charlie Doolittle,’ the girl said.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Ben was surprised. How had Charlie gotten this far?

  Maddox came up pretty close and said: ‘I’m going to ask a couple of questions, Ben, and I’m in a hurry. You answer them or we’ll work you over thoroughly. You understand that?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ben, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Right. Where’s Spur?’

  Ben knew that if he answered too quickly he wouldn’t be believed.

  ‘Spur?’ he said, opening his eyes wide in innocence. ‘How should I know where that man at? I lef him in town. I rid out two-three days gone.’

  ‘You dumb nigger,’ Maddox said, ‘you expect me to believe that? Try again.’

  ‘Mister,’ Ben said, spreading his hands, ‘It ain’t no good me tryin’ again. That the truth, so help me. Hones’.’

  Maddox lifted his quirt and struck Ben across the face with the butt. The Negro staggered back and put his hand to his face.

  ‘Man,’ he said, impressed. ‘That hurt. That sure did hurt.’

  Maddox said: ‘Ben, I’m going to mark you good if you don’t answer up real smart.’

  ‘I would, Mr. Maddox, suh, I sho’ would,’ Ben said, quickly becoming a humble field hand. ‘But I don’t know nothin’. I swear.’

  Wayne Gaylor said: ‘If you don’t know nothin’, boy, how come you are trailin’ us?’

  Ben blinked like a man faced with a good question.

  ‘That sho’ ain’t an easy question to answer, Mr. Gaylor, suh,’ he said.

  ‘Either you were trailing us or you weren’t,’ Maddox said.

  ‘Wa-al,’ Ben said, ‘I was sho’ on your trail, Mr. Maddox, suh,’ he wrung his hat a couple of times, and shifted his feet. The girl watched him, fascinated by his performance. ‘Jest the same, I wasn’t what you might call trailin’ you.’

  ‘It means the same thing, you black fool.’

  ‘No, suh, hit don’t. Hit don’ mean I was a-followin’ yow-all. I come on these hyer tracks, Mr. Maddox, an’ I sho’ am idle faller an’ I jest mosey along, as a man might say, an’ I follow. I like a hound-dog, Mr. Maddox. I see sign I jest gotta foiler. I sho’ have, Mr. Maddox.’

  Holy Madder said: ‘Let’s get on. Another hour an’ we’ll be in Mexico. I don’t give a goddam spit for this Spur. Cut this black sonovabitch’s throat an’ leave us get on.’

  Maddox looked at his boot-toe thoughtfully. Then he gazed at the Negro and the girl. Finally, he turned his gaze on Gaylor and Madder and said slowly: ‘He’s worth more to us alive than dead.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Madder in quiet despair, ‘we ain’t takin’ more along with us. Hell, man, they’ll have us outnumbered any minute now.’

  Maddox said: ‘We strip him down to his longjohns. We leave him without horse, gun or water. He can tell Spur who we are and how we have the girl and Doolittle. When Spur knows it’s us who have them, he’ll know what he’s up against. Ben will convince him to give up the chase. Won’t you, Ben?’

  The Negro nodded vigorously.

  ‘I’ll do that, Mr. Maddox, suh. I sho’ do that.’

  ‘Good.’ Maddox jerked his head in Ben’s direction and walked away.

  Holy Madder looked at Ben and laughed a laugh like the cracking of dry twigs. Ben looked scared.

  ‘Aw, man,’ he said.

  Holy took a pace forward and Ben backed up. He backed into something and found that it was Gaylor. The ex-sheriff laughed heartily.

  The girl cried out: ‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on him.’

  She started forward, but before she could reach them, Mad-dox tripped her and she went down. Ben let out a cry of rage. He knew it was all up now. He had lost this one. He could be dead from the sun and the thirst before Spur came along. He leapt at Holy Madder with an animal cry of rage. Startled by the sudden onslaught of a man he thought helpless, Madder fell back. Ben g
ot his hands on the man’s scrawny throat. Wayne Gaylor yelled in alarm and ran forward. Maddox cocked his gun and fired to scare Ben. But the Negro seemed past scaring. He seemed to have gone berserk. He shook Madder like the little rat he was, shouting his hate. The little man went down and Ben fell on top of him.

  Gaylor jumped in and caught the Negro by the scruff of his neck, hauling back. Ben made a choking sound, let Madder go and whirled. Alarmed by the ferocity of the attack which was so suddenly turned on him, Gaylor found it was his turn to back up. Ben leapt on him, Gaylor screamed. Maddox ran in and hit Ben on the back of the head with the barrel of his gun. He might as well have struck rock. Gaylor went down and Ben drove his knee into his belly. The air went out of the ex-lawman noisily. Ben stood up and Maddox cocked his gun. ‘Ben,’ he said, ‘you be still or I kill you.’ The Negro went still. He was panting and his eyes were wild.

  Madder climbed to his feet. ‘The bastard,’ he said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  ‘No,’ Maddox said quietly, ‘you do just like I say Holy.’ He smiled. ‘Mark him if you want. It’s your privilege.’

  Madder drew his gun and advanced slowly on the Negro. The sweat was pouring out of Ben’s black skin. The girl was on her feet.

  ‘You’re animals,’ she screamed. ‘You’re all animals and Spur’ll hunt you down and hang every one of you.’

  Madder swung his gun at Ben and the Negro ducked and weaved. Madder missed and that made him mad. Wayne Gaylor caught Ben behind and tried to hold him, but Ben struggled so fiercely that the man lost him. However, before Ben could break free, Madder had hit him at the base of the neck with his gun. Ben went to his knees, his eyes rolling and Madder hit him again. Maddox went and fetched his rope from his horse. The girl dropped on her knees beside Ben, but they dragged her away and dumped her in the dust. Maddox put the noose of his rope around the Negro’s wrists and pulled his arms above his head.

  ‘Cut the clothes off him,’ he said.

  They heaved his boots off and then slit his pants and shirt with their knives. Within seconds, Ben lay there in his longjohns.